


Not to Be Tame

by Laylah



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks as though he is craving battle, for all that he is ill-prepared for it: weaponless, armored only in bangles and the twist of red silk that preserves his modesty. When Torgal's forces captured him, he was chieftain of his own little mitra band, and he has still not lost that aggressive temperament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not to Be Tame

_It is said that the sovani ruled over all of the other races in ancient times. -- Academy Visistone #47_

There is nobody else who can make himself quite so at home in Torgal's keep, sprawling across the furs as though he is the one enthroned. It is a talent Allan has, the easy arrogance of a commander. "Still keeping those ridiculous little animals, I see," he says, when the boy arrives with their refreshments.

Torgal shrugs his left shoulders as tension stiffens the mitra's posture. "They are useful," he says. "Quicker than qsiti, more clever than yama." The golden bangles on the boy's arms -- a darker shade than his hair, a lighter one than his skin -- gleam in the firelight as he bends to pour their wine. "I see no reason to deny myself."

The boy keeps his eyes downcast as he offers Allan a goblet, and that appears to be enough; Allan is not watching closely, or perhaps has not studied mitra enough to read the signs of ill-suppressed resentment in his stance. "Your wine, my lord," he murmurs. His tone is almost entirely polite, only slightly strained. Perfect.

Allan takes the goblet, holds it up in two hands to inhale its bouquet. "You'll want to be careful of rumors," he purrs. "I've heard it said that Caedmon has taken to bedding one of his." He laughs, harsh and dismissive. "Can you imagine? The desert must finally have baked his brain."

"You're so quick to believe the worst of people," Torgal says. He meets his boy's eyes, a warning, as he accepts his own wine.

"And you're too forgiving," Allan says.

Torgal snorts. "To knowing each other's weaknesses," he says, lifting his goblet, and Allan laughs.

Allan's visit passes pleasantly enough, considering; he wants to call together a raiding band before the spring thaw, and track down a jhana settlement in the highlands. Torgal debates routes and strategies with him until the fire's warmth and the heady dark wine turn planning into reminiscing, telling each other tales of the campaigns they've waged in the past. Even the best of battles improves with age, and by evening they are both drunk on their own prowess.

Another time it might have led to a tumble; when they were new-blooded it often did. Even now, the faint musk of Allan's battle-joy is enough to stir Torgal's blood. But there is more to lose for either of them, now that they are grown -- now that they are warlords, who would be shamed to be bested. So Torgal keeps his claws to himself, restrains the urge to lunge, and sees Allan off in the evening without making any advances. It is a long journey back to Allan's holdings from here, but they hunt better by night than any of the lesser races by day, and no warlord likes to leave his territory for too long.

When Torgal returns to the warmth of his private rooms, his boy is waiting for him -- not kneeling like a proper slave, but standing by the fire, back straight and head high. He looks as though he is craving battle, for all that he is ill-prepared for it: weaponless, armored only in bangles and the twist of red silk that preserves his modesty. When Torgal's forces captured him, he was chieftain of his own little mitra band, and he has still not lost that aggressive temperament.

"You risk your position in using me," he says without preamble.

Torgal draws a breath to taste his scent, finds it raw and bright with the need for violence. It seems a shame for a boy like this to have been born a mitra. "A leader risks his position constantly," Torgal says. "You're a risk I can afford."

His boy's eyes narrow. "Can you truly?" he says. "Or would your warriors find you degenerate, and lose faith in you?"

"You speak of risks," Torgal says, stalking toward him, watching him struggle to hold his ground. "What if you did tell someone, and what if they believed you? There is no shame in besting a foe -- the shame is in being tamed by a captive." He is within arm's reach now, and he can taste how badly his fierce, helpless boy wants to retreat. "To prove I had not gone soft, I could either kill you or share you. Which would you prefer?"

"Neither," the boy says, and to his credit his voice is steady. "As well you know."

Torgal reaches for him. "Then do not pretend I am the only one who needs to keep this secret," he says.

His boy raises a hand to try to ward him off -- futile, when he is a head shorter and has only half as many arms as a sovani, but welcome all the same, as it's all the excuse Torgal needs to seize him by the wrist and drag him close. The struggle is brief and ends as is inevitable: Torgal bears his boy down onto his sleeping furs, pinning him, tasting the hot mingled scents of mitra shame and musk and fury. Two of his hands hold the boy's wrists down, while the others untie his leathers and slide back his sheath.

"Savage," the boy snarls, his blunt teeth bared. He twists in Torgal's grip, managing only to ruck up the cloth tied around his hips so that his cock is exposed. For all his resistance, his body responds to being claimed. He should have been a sovani.

"Allan is a fool," Torgal tells him softly, fiercely, pressing his legs apart and reaching between them. "He doesn't know what he's missing." Protests or no, the boy has sense enough to follow orders that are for his own protection, so he is still wearing the ivory plug that Torgal had him insert that afternoon.

"Spare me the flattery," the boy says, and then whatever else he might have added is interrupted by the involuntary whimper he makes as Torgal removes his plug. It's a beautiful sound, vulnerable, conquered; it's irresistible. Torgal presses his thighs up and outward, exposing his stretched and oiled hole. He trembles, being spread so, either from physical strain or from anger at being bested; Torgal covers him, pinning him down, and thrusts home.

He feels divine, hot and clutching tight; mitra bodies are so much smaller than sovani, no amount of preparation can entirely compensate. His breath is shaky, audible, as Torgal takes him, and he squirms as though he's either trying to escape or trying to set a pace. With the boy pinned like this, Torgal can afford to let go of at least one of his thighs -- with only one limb free, there's little the boy can do to fight him.

With that free hand Torgal takes hold of the boy's cock, finds it hard despite -- because of -- the struggle. The gesture earns him another surrendering noise, sharp in the boy's throat as though being touched causes him pain. The boy wraps his leg low around Torgal's hips, and now his movements clearly seek to set a rhythm for them.

Torgal laughs, leaning down to lick salt from the boy's throat. Mitra have so little protection, bare skin so soft. "Ask for what you want," he says. "Show me you're civilized."

A shudder wracks the boy, paired with the bright scent of rage. "Cooperating with a tyrant is no way to prove that," he spits.

Torgal growls with pleasure. "Well spoken," he says. He ignores the boy's attempts to urge him to a particular stroke, rocking deep at his own pace; eventually the boy ceases to struggle and moves with him. Sweat slicks the boy's skin, so Torgal has to tighten his grip to compensate, and the sweetness of musk rises, overpowering the sharper notes in his scent.

The boy spends quickly once his resistance is gone, clenching rhythmically around Torgal's cock and splattering his belly with bitter fluid. Torgal purrs in satisfaction and uses him harder, driving the lesson home as he would with one of his own kind: he is the victor, so this pleasure is his right. His own climax surprises him with its ferocity; no mere mitra should be able to make him feel so satisfied.

When he withdraws, he can see discomfort flicker in his boy's eyes, but the defiant set of that delicate jaw has not changed. The urge to waste words complimenting the boy's stubbornness rises again, and Torgal quells it. His boy has no wish to be tamed, and neither does he.

"Clean yourself up before you leave here," he says instead, releasing the boy and sitting back. He is prepared for an attempt at violence, or for another barbed exchange about his indulgence, but the boy gives him neither, simply turning away to make use of the wash basin. Torgal watches him, noting the faint hints of discomfort and the far more obvious signs of wounded pride.

When he finishes bathing, the boy turns back to him, head high, eyes challenging. "Your time won't last forever," he says. "Neither your people's nor your own. We _will_ bring you down."

The purr rises in Torgal's throat without conscious thought. "If you can," he says, "you will deserve it."

His boy nods. "We will," he says.

He leaves without waiting to be dismissed.


End file.
